


Don't Look Now (or First Fun Facts)

by panicsdownpour



Series: Fun Facts [1]
Category: Marvel
Genre: BuckyNat Mini-Bang, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 12:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15460941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panicsdownpour/pseuds/panicsdownpour
Summary: They know the big things about each other- where they grew up, what sort of pizza toppings they like, that sort of thing- but the little things come in bits and pieces, realized when they're least expected. A bit about becoming Bucky and Natasha becoming partners again, learning and rediscovering the little things about each other when they know the big ones, and helping each other through them. There are bits known, some bits new, all things appreciated. All strangely comforting. They’re both a little flawed and they both could use the company there.Or five times they surprised each other and what they learned along the way.For More Fun Facts, Check Back in Soon. The Details of #4-5 Are Still Being Debated Over By Two Very Stubborn Former-Assassins.





	Don't Look Now (or First Fun Facts)

**Author's Note:**

> For the fabulous FuckYeahBuckyNatasha's Mini-Bang!

**Fun Fact #1: Bungee Jumping is a No Go**

The first time he surprises her Natasha isn’t even remotely ready for it. They’re visiting an amusement park Tony has been working on - or more correctly, it’s a side project of Pepper’s with the mechanics physically put in place by Tony’s suit when required. It’s James’ first week out with the rest of the gang - including Tony, the one who arguably took longest to come around enough to be civil, and she’s impressed by the boys’ behavior so far. They’d been given a tour of the majority of the place — the inner workings, the main restaurant, the kids’ lounge, and so on. No fights, no more than some bickering amongst the men, but no more than what the older Barton kids’ had engaged in at lunch time. She’s ready to pronounce the day a success and the overall tone as smooth. 

They’re ascending up the side of a mountain, Steve’s in a car with Sam ahead of them, a painstakingly created man-made view is the finish line. Natasha is beginning to consider a doze - it’s only she and James in the car as a result of being last in line, so she’s not pulling double duty helping Clint and Laura herd the kids- when across the aisle she catches James staring at the top of the car like he’s got some sort of laser vision. His gaze automatically swivels with the sense he’s being watched, swings back up, them back to Natasha again.

"I can't look down."

The explanation comes out weak, pathetic really. 

"You can't look down?" she asks for clarification, to make sure she’d heard him right. Her eyes have temporarily given up on closing, but she’s still slouched a tad, head leaned back against the wall. 

"Isn't that what I just said?" He snaps, an open hand held up beside his head as a make shift blinder, his head tilted just so, she assumed to avoid glimpsing an identical view of the outside that flanked his left. 

"...This a park. For sick kids. You have a history of... crashing helicopters and parachuting from planes. Since when don’t you do heights?” Her tone is gently matter-of-fact. She isn’t trying to be an asshole, insensitive, or to shame him; she is doing what works best for her, to point out the facts of the matter. And the fact of _his_ matter is that he has spent time at far greater heights doing far more dangerous than riding in a controlled, safety-checked lift. If he’s exaggerating or playing with her, she has nothing to lose by softening up for a minute.

“Since roughly 1925, when Jimmy Harper taught me to fly from on top of the slides,” he snarled. "It’s a little bit different when you don't have a choice. A real choice, anyway. So would you quit moving and wave the guy down. You're shaking the cart and everyone is gonna see if I hurl in here."

"You're serious." She’s glad she didn’t decide to make fun of him right off the bat. It was a good call. Bucky peeked one eye open, looking around the splayed hand that he'd lifted over his face and mouth while reminding himself to breathe steadily. His hand dropped into his lap, but his jaw was tensed and he looked like grinding his teeth was in his near future. 

"Do I look serious, Natasha?"

Natasha couldn't say otherwise, so she didn't. Instead she focused on the green eyes peering back at him, in stark contrast to the blue of the sky and vivid hues of nature beneath them.

"What's the worst that could happen? I'm not kidding—" she added, catching the man's critical squint from the onset. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"We could die.” His answer came without a moment’s hesitation.

"That's it?” she countered, pressing him.

"That's it?!” 

"I mean, how? How would we die?"

"We stall, the glass shatters, we fall and die. Or car latch breaks. Or the cord breaks."

"Doubled cords. Both wouldn't break."

"Still leaves the latch and the glass."

"It's bulletproof. Because it’s Pepper and Tony. And I checked the latch before we left the ground. What else ya got?"

"Wait-" Bucky's hands left his face entirely for the first time since they'd reached twenty feet off the ground. Natasha had counted on it, concealing a smile that might take from his interest in the matter at hand. "You checked this thing before we got on? Who does that?"

"What if something happens? I have to be prepared.” Her tone was bored, unbothered by her car mate’s incredulousness.

"What if— you’re more paranoid than I am.” The revelation seemed to help him perk up; she assumed it was nice to think someone was more messed up, on any level, than you were.

"Not paranoid. Just...careful. Or something like that. Why label it?"

"It's an park ride running in a park built by Tony, someone who hates failing almost as much as he hates shutting up. Or not taking all the credit. And you double-checked him.” Now he was really perking up, sitting straighter in his seat, hands resting on his knees instead of gripping each other.

"This shouldn't be shocking,” she reminded.

“…suppose it’s not,” he agreed, chancing a quick glance to his right when a bird caught his eye, flitting by. 

“I just…” Natasha began again, cut off by James repeating her last word.

"Just..."

"Like to be prepared."

He seemed to mull this over, the simple, obvious, honest truth, shifting into a more comfortable position while his movements were still carefully, deliberately, slow. ”…well, it does make me feel better. About falling to my death. At least I know exactly who to blame."

"Oh shut up.”

"Oh shut up." The grin on his face, so damn childish, was so worth the echoed tease.

“So this Jimmy…he really did a number on you, huh?” 

Before he realizes it - Natasha is aware of every foot they gain or lose- they’re clicking into the lock-in and the attendant is unlocking the safety hinge on the door. The others are waiting for them, aside from the ones still enroute in the car behind theirs.

Natasha keeps the chink she discovered in his armor quiet as well as the story of how she came upon it, and he’s grateful but not entirely surprised. She’s been known to keep a secret. But he hadn’t known she’d keep a secret for him. So maybe, she wasn’t the only one to learn something hidden about the man she once knew.

It’s the first surprise she gets from him that doesn’t involve weaponry, an attack, or a preference for chicken soup from select family eateries dating back to the days of Jello molds. A new bit of knowledge, a bit of her old partner she’d never known before.

James Buchanan Barnes does not do heights. 

**Fun Fact #2: Clowns and Spiders Do Not Mix. While We’re at it, Leave out the Barber too.**

"Friends don't let friends cut their own hair.”

From her spot in the doorway of their bathroom, she had been watching him arrange an electric razor, a pair of cosmetic scissors, and a jar of pomade on the granite counter top. In his hand was a steel small toothed comb, his gaze focused intensely on his reflection in the mirror, expression calculating. She watched the ripple effect of her voice breaking the silence, the way his muscles tensed, his stance changed, the way he came back down from it all once he realized there was no threat to react to, aside from her teasing. It was once he cracked a scowl that bordered on a smile around the eyes that she entered the bathroom, returning his expression with a smile in the glass.

"What makes you think I haven't cut my own hair before.”

"Oh, I know you did. But might I suggest...a barber?"

"No."

He didn't like the feeling of some unknown whisking sharp objects around his head, too much talking, the noise of the street, the television, his hands beneath the bib a stressor he wouldn't attempt again anytime soon. Shuri couldn't fix everything.

"I like doing it myself."

"What if I do it?...You can say 'no'. I have as much experience as you, but I missed playing salon with my dolls as a kid. I think it would be fun. And if it's awful, I think you'd look very handsome with a buzzcut so nobody has to know it ever happened," she offered, twirling a lock of dark, damp hair between her fingers.”

"...Yeah, okay. Just be careful of my ears. I need them," he huffed, looking over her shoulder, off at some speck at the wall. It was embarrassing, being nervous about a haircut, as if he were a little boy. But he did need one, as seemingly everyone and their mother had been enjoying pointing out to him in recent days.

"Keep both ears. Got it. You're in good hands," she noted gently, standing on her toes when she pressed a kiss along his stubbled jaw.

"Let's get you a chair."

____________________________________________________

Natasha was half way through snipping away at the back of his head when she broke their extended silence. 

"I once fled from the ice cream man."

It sounded so ridiculous and came from so far out of left field that Bucky thought he must have heard her wrong at first. He had been nearly stone still, aside from one chewed-short fingernail picking at a small hole in the thigh of his sweatpants, but Natasha's confession from behind him made him question whether his mind or his hearing were playing tricks on him. Her lithe fingers never slowed in their steady work, presenting locks of hair to the shears and arranging sections according to some personal system she seemed to have. Without missing a beat, expression void of anything outside of intense focus, she continued as if what she had said was entirely normal and expected. 

"The ice-cream truck," she corrected, "in San Mateo, nine months after I was released out into the public. After Clint brought me in. Years ago, now. ” The sound of slicing and a thick lock of dark hair fell to the floor, a handful of severed strands landing on his shoulder. "I was still working through the boxes up top.” It was obvious what she was referring to without the explanation that would follow; after all, he was picking through the compartments of his brain on the daily, still sorting out fact from fiction, what was needed from what was unnecessary programming. 

“Old information,” she continued, "old training. That sort of work. But outside of my brain, I was on desk duty, doing the equivalent of licking envelopes, in a repurposed supply closet with no air conditioning. It was early evening, I was starving, and it was ridiculously hot. So I went out for air. And the ice cream truck was out there, down the street a few buildings, close to the neighborhood park.”

She was really making an effort to keep him from being embarrassed by his discomfort with haircuts; it was working. 

“I go, the last kid has dispersed before I’m within close range. I get there, the guy’s back is turned. I order a chocolate eclair on a stick, drop my change on the counter, and wait. The guy turns around—“ she pauses for effect, mild horror hinting at the horror he could tell she still drew from the memory, a hint of disgust mixed in. “—and this truck driver has gone full Pennywise. Not with the whole killer part of it, but the clown half. Bulbous nose, red cheeks, white face, wild hair. Asks me to repeat my order. I must have ran for a solid block and into an alley way, with the guy yelling about my change and apologizing for the scare. It was themed, the truck. Circus-themed, lions and tigers and clowns. Clint still hasn’t stopped laughing, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Bucky is vaguely amused,it more thoughtful than he is ready to roll on the floor. Finally he puts in words what he’s been thinking about as her brief clip of a story unfolded. It was only supposed to be comic relief, but he thinks there may be more in it, and he considers it while she decides on a length for the hair at the front of his ‘do. “It was the mask, right? Not seeing his face- work stuff.”

Natasha’s expression blanked at the question, her hand pushing back through her hair as a look of contemplation crossed it. She seemed almost perplexed.

“No.” She sounded surprised, like it was only just occurring to her. “I’ve never liked them. As a child. As an adult. Something about those big red cheeks and the-,” she motioned as if her hair were standing up a foot, “-the hair. The colors.” Bucky could swear he makes out a shudder. 

“…how about those cartoon characters, in Time Square? Or Disney?” he asked, testing how wide ranging her fear of child-geared creatures of fun reached. 

“What about them?”

“Nothing?” he pressed, gently curious. She replied with a role of her eyes. 

“It’s like I told you- clowns. The hair. The faces. I don’t recoil at the sight of all joy.”

She’s teasing but he felt the need to assure her that he knew that, he knew. “I think I even have a picture with Tweety-Bird, she insists. 

With that last shared sentiment, Natasha quiets to focus on a tricky bit at the front of his head, repositioning his head. Bucky hardly notices, he’s so lost in the idea of Natasha and her newly discovered fear of the joyful big-top staples. Her slip of a story sees him straight through the remainder of his shape-up, through her brushing him off, right on until she's circled around to stand in front of him, hands on her hips and demanding to know if the cut is that bad and that's why he's been so quiet. 

All he can do is thank her.

After all, she's given him another piece of her to hold onto and another piece of himself back while she was at it. He looks in the mirror, and he sees himself again.

And finally, his first surprise of the sort from her.

Just when he was beginning to think they’d learned all they might be able to get out of the other. Clowns. Who would have thought.

Natasha does not do clowns. It’s not a training thing and it’s not a hatred of gleeful actors. It’s simple. Natasha does not do clowns. Bucky tucks the piece of knowledge away about his partner and may or may not have restrained a clown at the fair when they visited, on a trip months later to Ohio after working on a case of money laundering. He pays him off in exchange for not calling emergency services, and Bucky earns nothing but the satisfaction of seeing Natasha enjoy herself (and an easier time writing out paperwork together). Teamwork, rethought.

 

**Fun Fact #3: Sharing Is Not A Thing. Anything Less Than the Job of Captain? Up for debate.**

 

“LeftLeftLeft.“ Bucky’s gaze on the side view mirror, his words ran together until tire squeals suggested he must need to be clearer. “Jesus– I said go  _left_ , Natasha!” A sharp crack was heard to his right and after conducting a short assessment of the splintered mirror, it was obvious the bullet hole in the metal that remained was meant as a reminder their pursuers weren’t ready to forgive and forget yet.

“Whose turn is it to drive?” The redhead tilted her ear towards him, but answered her own question without much wait. “Mine. We’ll make a right at Fletcher, head through the industrial parks, and lose them by the warehouses. You can try and blow their tires out if you want some added security. But we’re going. My. Way.”

Looking over his shoulder, Bucky double checked that the lock box they’d stolen was still safe on the floor of the backseat, secure and not ready to fly out the window with the wildness of the ride. “The freeway is a better bet. Shake them off, clear exit 5, lose this heap of scrap metal you picked out, and hit the tunnels on foot,” he explained quickly but precisely, walking through the route steps. As if his master spy girlfriend was anything less than fiercely stubborn. He loved her to the moon and back, but she was indisputably infuriating sometimes. At least she was more than skilled enough for her confidence.

“We’re fine,” Natasha replied with such calm and cool that he knew it was meant to mess with him, and she knew he knew it too. Glancing up at the rear view mirror, she watched the dark blue Sedan swerve to miss a UPS drop-box and hit a parked pick up truck in the process. “See?”

“I swear if they catch up to us—” he muttered, a pout forming at his lips as he looked out the window. What he could see was the driver pulling a  _Fast and Furious_ , damn near scraping a door off the wreck they were driving and barreling on after the agents.

“You’ll do…what?” she challenged. In Natasha’s peripherals, she could see he was making a perfect indent of his hand on the center console. So much for salvaging the vehicle later- she’d grown to rather like it. Waving his hand away, she gestured towards the maze of industrial streets ahead of them. “We’ll shake them better here than the highway,” she insisted, met with the metallic click of a gun’s safety coming off. Glancing over, it was obvious he was preparing for the goons trailing them to catch up.

“And if we don’t? You dry-cleaning the blood out of this thing?” Bucky grumbled, roughly tucking back a lock of dark hair that had fallen from the messy bun Natasha had fashioned in bed that morning. 

A shrug accompanied the smirk she gained in the wake of his questions. The spy had every confidence in her pick, but she never minded a good bet. “If we don’t, the laundry is on me, and so is tonight’s movie and popcorn. Raise the stakes higher- anything more than a bruise comes out of it, and I’ll make it up to you, however you’d like tonight. But only,” she dragged out the ‘o’ sound out, “if we get caught.”

“Oh yeah?” The potential gains for dealing with her wrong call were enough to drain some of Bucky’s fight. After all, he wasn’t concerned with how they could handle the men trailing them; taking them on was just an unnecessary risk. The man’s sense took a second to catch up, but he did once they were lurching around another corner and whizzing through a dual open end warehouse. “What do I lose if you’re right, huh? Not that I don’t know ya not,” he made it a point to add, a tinge of a Brooklyn accent slipping in. Knowing Natasha like he did, it was worth weighing both sides and not letting fantasies reel him in too easily.

“If I win…” Natasha’s bottom lip snagged between her teeth, the move as much for his benefit as it was for her concentration, which was split between their conversation, the obstacle course of a path, and the car falling further behind them. “…then I’d be willing to accept you admitting I was right. Plus shirtless dish duty for the week, and,” she paused for effect, “I drive next time,” she finished off, unable or unwilling to stave off the hint of a self-assured smile.

Rolling down his window, Bucky readied himself to fire a few shots, all the while deciding just how lucky he was feeling. “I could use some practice,” came his verdict, sour tone replaced by what bordered on smugness. “You’re on, sweetheart. But just a heads up-”

“Hm?”

“Next time, we’re stealing a Jag.”

A handful of bruised ribs later and a hell of a workout in the form of mission rougher than intended is all Bucky needs to learn that Natasha Romanoff does not take direction well. Or rather she does, but not as an automatic. Her life had been largely made up of more commands and orders than anyone person would have to deal with in a life time, or maybe two. But it has never comes naturally, and it both frustrates and leaves Bucky ridiculously pleased post-frustration to learn that Natasha is not a fantastic soldier. But then, she never was. It just might make her the best partner and just what he needs. He's happy to take the backseat -figuratively- if it means she's the one at the wheel. Provided she can live with a little backseat driving.

 

_ For More Fun Facts, Check Back in Soon. The Details of #4-5 Are Still Being Debated Over By Two Very Stubborn Former-Assassins.  _


End file.
